


Find Out What It Means

by Dira Sudis (dsudis)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitute, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-07
Updated: 2009-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-04 06:19:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/pseuds/Dira%20Sudis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick needs an adult.  Pete isn't one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Find Out What It Means

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Lies, damned lies, and even hints of statistics.
> 
> If you found this page by searching the internet for fanfiction about yourself or people you know personally, a) knock that off, man, it's bad for you, and b) you have only yourself to blame if you don't hit the back button _right now_.
> 
> Beta thanks to Miss Molly Etc, Iulia Mentis, Miss Pamela, and cheerleading and audiencing thanks to countless others!
> 
> This story was first posted September 3, 2007.

Patrick struggled pretty uselessly when Pete tickled him--like he never got tickled enough as a kid to learn to really fight back, or like he didn't really mind. He laughed in a stupid way, all giggles and snorts and the occasional writhing howl when Pete hit a sweet spot. It was kind of addictive. It made Pete want to figure out every stupid noise he could get Patrick to make.

Pete wondered what kind of noise he'd get next when he reached for Patrick's hat, grabbing for the guitar pick he'd thrown at Patrick ten minutes ago when this started, the one Patrick had tucked up under the edge of the hat. It was right above his ear, peeking out of his hair like an orange plastic flower petal. Patrick didn't make it easy, squirming and flailing, and Pete wound up ripping Patrick's hat right off. He felt a few silky strands of hair get caught up under his fingers, cutting lines of sharp resistance into Pete's skin before giving way.

He didn't even have time to think _oops_ before Patrick stopped laughing, silence sharper than a yell. Pete caught a glimpse of Patrick's eyes--wide and blue and not really seeing him--before his hat-grabbing hand was caught and twisted away hard, his elbow and wrist lightning-struck with bright yellow-red pain. He tried to pull away but Patrick jumped him, tackling him to the ground with a knee in his stomach.

All of Pete's breath left him in a burning rush. He barely even felt Patrick's foot connect with his thigh. He lay on the ground, curled around his arm and his empty lungs, as Patrick scrambled backward. His eyes were just as wide, but dazed now--seeing Pete and scared of what they saw.

Pete squeezed his eyes shut, because he would never get his breath back under the weight of Patrick's stare. It took a few seconds, but Pete had been here before: on soccer fields and in parking lots and his parents' backyard. He moved his mouth until his breath came back, and then he opened his eyes.

Patrick was still standing there, hair messed up, face goth-pale. His hat was on the floor a few feet away, and Pete could see the bright orange of the pick beyond it. Pete struggled up into a sitting position, cradling his arm against his chest.

"You broke my fucking arm, Patrick."

"It's not broken," Patrick said, but his voice was so small and uncertain it was almost a question.

He reached out one hand toward Pete, his whole body tilting forward a little like he was going to come closer, make sure that Pete was okay, but then he snapped back like a rubber band.

"I have to go. Dinner. Mom'll kill me."

He turned away, grabbing his hat and jacket, and was out of the practice space before Pete could stand, or speak, or even finish flexing his arm and making a fist (Patrick was right, it wasn't really broken, it just hurt like fuck). It was only when Pete had gathered up his own stuff--plus Joe's hoodie and the backpack Patrick left without--that it occurred to him that it was long since dark out. Joe had left to get home to his mom for dinner more than an hour ago.

* * *

Pete had an early class the next day, but he didn't sleep for shit that night--his arm hurt, and he could feel bruises forming with every thump of his heart, but that was the least of it. He couldn't get that look on Patrick's face out of his head; every time he started to fall asleep it got hard to breathe all over again.

It was no trouble at all to be out of bed extra early, and he drove over to Patrick's school, parked in the nearly-empty seniors' section of the lot, and waited. It was dark and cold, streetlights burning orange and blocking out the stars. He'd just started thinking about turning the car back on for the heat when Patrick's beat-up little Honda pulled in, circled and then stopped in the space next to his. Pete got out at the same time Patrick did, and they met at the back of Pete's car. Patrick kept his head down, but Pete could see him blushing, his face too red to be explained by the bite in the air.

He had a thick stocking cap pulled down over his ears. Pete felt no temptation at all to tug on it, or to try to tickle Patrick under his thick jacket.

Pete offered him the backpack silently, without looking around for other kids. He could feel the joke he was supposed to make on the back of his tongue--the one about how this must look, Patrick's college boyfriend bringing him the stuff he left behind last night--but Patrick didn't give him an opening or even make eye contact.

Patrick made a short low noise that was probably, "Thanks," as he took the bag, slinging it over one shoulder.

Pete nodded, staring at his own feet because he'd rather see them than see Patrick like this. "Practice Sunday, right?"

This time Patrick's mumble was almost certainly, "Yeah."

* * *

Practice on Sunday went strangely fine. Pete knew the other three thought he and Patrick had fought with each other, and they had, sort of. Pete had pissed Patrick off, and Patrick had hit him; that was a fight, wasn't it? But Pete couldn't really find it in himself to be mad at Patrick, and he didn't think Patrick was mad at him, and the way they avoided each other's gazes and stuck to playing songs like they'd never goofed around for an entire practice... that was something else completely.

Jared and TJ took off as soon as they'd gotten through a decent rehearsal, but Joe lingered, watching Pete and Patrick like he thought he should say something. Pete just shook his head--Patrick was looking away, packing up his stuff and pretending none of them were there--and Joe gave Pete a stern _fix this_ look that would have been hilarious if things had needed any less fixing. Joe punched Patrick lightly on the shoulder before he took off, and Pete felt a burst of stage fright like he never did when there was actually a stage involved.

Pete expected Patrick to bolt (hoped he would), but Patrick was taking his time, dawdling over stuff in his backpack.

Pete said, "Hey, Patrick, hang on."

Patrick went still, like he'd been waiting for that.

Pete reached out for him cautiously, tugging on his shoulder until Patrick finally looked up, meeting Pete's eyes for practically the first time since Pete had looked up at him from the floor.

Patrick cleared his throat and then said steadily (with his voice all warmed up and under perfect control after two hours singing), "Sorry about the other day. Your arm's all right?"

Pete nodded, watching the determined tilt of Patrick's chin, the way he wasn't pulling away from Pete's hand on his shoulder. Okay, then.

"The thing is," Pete said, squeezing a little, smiling a little. "I've figured out bands work better if nobody in them is crazier than I am. So I wanted to ask you what's up with the hat. It was the hat, right?"

Patrick was wearing a baseball cap today, green with a faded, unreadable logo on the front in white; when Patrick looked down all Pete could see was the sweat-stained bill hiding his face.

Patrick said, "Yeah, it's..."

He reached up, adjusting the hat, and then lifted his chin again. "I should tell you. You--I have to tell you something."

Pete let go of Patrick's shoulder and resisted the urge to step back from that resolved look. "Okay. Go for it."

Patrick looked around the room and took a deep breath. "I have this--I work. Sometimes."

Pete felt his eyes narrow as he mentally ran through the possibilities for part-time jobs Patrick could have that would make him that sensitive about hats.

He hadn't gotten very far when Patrick blurted, "Sometimes I have sex with guys for money."

Okay, that wouldn't have made the list even if Pete had gotten way further down it.

"You have," Pete said, and he couldn't get the next word out.

Patrick's cheeks were pink, but he nodded quickly. "I mean, I would have sex with guys not for money, too, or girls, but--the money thing. _Prostitution_. I do that. Sometimes--not, like, you know."

Patrick flapped a hand dismissively, like obviously Pete knew all about this.

"It's not a big deal," he continued, "I don't have a pimp or a tragic drug addiction or anything. I just--it's pretty good money, actually, and, you know--"

He laughed a little, a short chuckle nothing like what came out of his mouth when Pete tickled him. "Flexible scheduling and everything. I'm my own boss, I can't get fired when I miss work to play a show."

Pete blinked. He couldn't really think of anything to think about this, except that he was not going to be less cool about it than a seventeen-year-old kid who wore argyle sweaters and knee socks without any detectable irony.

"You say who, you say when, you say how much?"

Patrick gave him a fast, nervous smile. "Yeah, pretty much. I haven't seen Richard Gere yet, but you never know, right? But I just--that's--I always wear hats when I'm not working, okay? Because people pull my hair and I--it pisses me off when I'm not getting paid for it."

He shrugged stiffly, and Pete forced himself to smile and nod like that was _totally normal_, like of course you would be touchy about your hats, then. Obviously. Because people pulling your hair was only okay if they were _paying you for it_.

"I just thought you should know," Patrick said in a rush, his smile disappearing and his chin tilting downward again. "I mean, because the other day, but--I'm really careful, you know, protection and everything and I never use my real name when I'm working, I don't even carry ID--" and he said it earnestly, like that was supposed to _reassure_ Pete, "but I know I could get caught or get sick or something, and I just want you to know, okay. I mean, you should know what you're letting into your band."

Pete stared at him for a second, and, God, he was not used to being the one trying to catch up with the conversation. He wondered if this was what other people felt like when they talked to him. All of a sudden Patrick--sweet, innocent, naïve little Patrick who apparently had sex with dudes for money--was like an early payment on that thing his mom kept saying about _someday you will have a child just like you_.

"It's our band, Patrick. You're a part of it."

Patrick smiled a little at that, cautiously. "And I'm a prostitute. Sometimes."

Pete shrugged. "I'm an asshole most of the time. So you went pro already, that's cool. When we get a big record deal, you'll be the one who knows what he's doing."

Patrick smiled a little wider at that, blushed a little brighter. Pete's brain finally kicked something out of his mouth.

"How do you even do that, anyway?"

Patrick's face went redder, but his voice was remarkably even as he said, "Um, I don't know how many Health classes you skipped--"

Pete grinned and shoved at Patrick's shoulder. "Not _that_, I mean, just--professionally, how do you even get _started_?"

"Oh," Patrick said, and he smiled nervously again, and then laughed, actually made the sound _ha ha ha_, like the freaky, stomach-twisting opposite of real laughter. Pete flashed on those upside-down question marks in Spanish, the ones that told you _this is going to be a question_. Patrick's laugh said _this is going to be funny_ except that obviously it wasn't.

"It was like that scene in Office Space, you know, where they have all the money and they don't know what to do, and they look up _money laundering_ in the dictionary? I was just sort of... I was in the right neighborhood one night, and I was broke, and I thought, hey, I could, but I didn't know if I could really figure out _how_."

He stuttered out another little laugh, and Pete grinned the best he could. His face was starting to hurt. He didn't want to know what Patrick had been doing, broke in that kind of neighborhood at night (didn't want to know what the fuck had happened to Patrick to make him think he could), he didn't, he didn't.

"It, um, it's actually a lot easier to figure out than money laundering," Patrick said, his smile fading awkwardly.

Pete kept nodding. He was cool. He was totally cool with this.

Patrick half-turned away again, fiddling with something in his bag, and where exactly was he going to _go_ now? Home late for dinner again? Was he going _out_? How the fuck did this even _work_ when you were seventeen and lived with your mom in the suburbs?

"Hey, don't your parents, um..." _notice you're out fucking guys for money_, except obviously they didn't if Patrick was doing it, which made that a really dumb question to ask. Pete snapped his teeth shut on it, not quite fast enough.

Patrick's shoulders hunched, and he looked really ashamed for the first time since he'd started talking. Pete could barely look at him and didn't dare look away.

"My mom thinks I'm spending a lot of time at my dad's, my dad knows I'm with my mom. It's just... easier to be nowhere a lot of the time. This way I've got the money, I don't have to ask for anything, nobody notices. And I do go home sometimes, it's not like I ran away."

_Easier_, except Pete had seen the look on Patrick's face, and he didn't know what the fuck was harder than that but he didn't think he wanted to ask any more questions. Still, there was some kindergarten teacher's voice ringing in the back of his head, lecturing about bad touches and telling grownups.

"Patrick, do you need..."

"Look, it's not a big deal, it's fine as long as nobody knows, and nobody's going to find out," Patrick said, quick and a little fierce, like he knew what Pete was thinking. "If my parents--it's not even like I'd get taken away from them or something, they'd just re-enact their entire divorce in front of me so I'd know it was my fault this time, and then pack me off to some--some--"

Pete remembered what Patrick couldn't name. The fading bruises on his stomach gave him disjointed dreams of being caught out back of the showers, of calling home every night during his allotted ten minutes and begging for his parents to come and get him.

There was no fucking way he was telling on Patrick. Whatever Patrick needed right now, it wasn't to get _punished_. "No, man, it's cool, nobody's finding out. It's your secret identity, right? I'm like Lois Lane now."

Patrick snorted. "Okay, but for the record, I don't wear tights. Ever."

* * *

It took Pete more than a day to realize that somewhere in the middle of all of that, Patrick had come out to him. So after the first day, he wasn't just getting ambushed with mental images of Patrick getting his hair pulled (and the hands were always fuzzy in Pete's head, nothing more specific than guys, money). After the first day, after "_I would have sex with guys not for money_," popped into his brain at four in the morning while Pete was supposed to be writing a paper on the uses of propaganda under democratic versus autocratic regimes--he kept thinking about Patrick and sex, not for money. Patrick kissing boys, kissing girls, kissing--

Kissing anybody, whatever--those images were fuzzy too (crystal clear, his hands on Patrick's shoulders, his palm tilting Patrick's jaw up, Patrick's eyes meeting his with a whole new kind of dazed look) but they were just bright flashes lost in a fast current. Pete had papers to write, classes to attend, shows to go see, shows to play, two different bands to practice with. He'd catch himself watching Patrick sometimes, watching Patrick's mouth and thinking _Patrick has sex with guys for money_, or even just _Patrick has sex_. Both seemed equally impossible.

But every time Pete started thinking it had to be some kind of elaborate joke, he remembered the frantic strength of Patrick's hand twisting his arm away. He remembered the wild look in Patrick's eyes, like he didn't even know what he was doing. And then Pete couldn't think about Patrick having sex at all; he could only remember Patrick talking about _being nowhere_, like it was that simple. He had to be living in his shitty little car when he didn't go home, curling up in the back seat to sleep (in fucking November, risking freezing to death because it was _easier_ than going home, what the _fuck_). Getting to school early to sneak a shower in the locker rooms--and did that mean he had nowhere to wash up when he was done _working_?

When he found _Pretty Woman_ on TV, flipping channels at two in the morning, Pete watched. He couldn't look away--the whole thing was hypnotic as a PG-13 car crash produced by Disney. He felt guiltier watching it than he ever had watching porn.

The next day his Law and Ethics seminar veered into a debate on the legalization of sex work. They always called it _sex work_ in the Poli Sci department. Occasionally someone slipped and said _prostitution_, but nobody ever, ever said _having sex with guys for money, you know, sometimes, it's not a big deal_.

It was usually one of Pete's favorite topics, but he couldn't say a word this time. He thought he couldn't, anyway, staring down at his notebook. He colored the margins black and didn't think about Patrick sitting in some boring high school class at that same moment (didn't think about Patrick maybe going out to _work_ tonight, since Pete was practicing with Arma Angelus and that meant Fall Out Boy wasn't doing anything).

Pete thought he wasn't going to say anything (and fuck his stupid participation grade, because it wasn't like he ever shut up the rest of the semester) right up until he slouched back in his seat and said, "Yeah, but if it's legal for adults, that means kids will do it, too. It's just like drinking or cigarettes. If you make it totally acceptable for adults, you make it almost-acceptable for kids."

The guy in his class who always raised his hand by raising just one finger--the one who was more pretentious all by himself at ten in the morning than any room full of scene kids any time of night--had his hand up before Pete even finished a sentence. Pete bit his lip and stared at his notebook while Mr. Future Lawyer Asshole droned on about _questions of enforcement_, and then half the class piled on and mocked Pete for making the _think of the children_ argument.

Pete kept his head down. He couldn't wait for class to be over, and couldn't stop thinking of Patrick.

* * *

Once he started paying attention to the things Patrick said, and didn't say, (and the things Patrick only said after Joe said them first), it was obvious how rarely he went home. Pete had a pretty good idea of when Patrick was working--never the night before a show, or at least nothing that left any evidence. Pete thought he would work the night before a practice, though, sometimes. He'd come in sounding a little hoarse, looking a little more pale and tired than usual. When Jared and Joe teased him about pulling an all-nighter nowhere near finals, Pete was careful to either join in or leap to Patrick's defense the same way he would have before he had any idea why Patrick sounded hoarse (because he'd had somebody's dick down his throat last night, for money, _don't think of a pink elephant, don't think of the way an orange smells, don't think about Patrick's job_).

Pete kept waiting, dreading the day Patrick wouldn't show up to practice, or would show up limping, or bruised, or with his mom waiting outside, giving him just enough time to say goodbye before he had to go away for a while. (To jail.) (To an expensive boarding school, or a private hospital, or _camp_.)

But it didn't happen. Patrick kept showing up looking just fine, and after the first few careful days Pete made sure to tease him and mess around with him just like always, only making sure not to go for the hat.

Once, crammed into TJ's mom's minivan on the way to a Knights of Columbus hall in the suburbs, Joe and Patrick got into some backseat squabble, and Joe yanked Patrick's hat off. Pete saw Patrick freeze--forcing himself not to do to Joe what he'd done to Pete, not in the car, not on the way to a show--and Pete reacted without thought. Before a second had passed he was twisting in his seat to rabbit-punch Joe and grab Patrick's hat back, tossing it to him without looking at him.

"Ow, what the fuck?" Joe snapped, but he was looking at Pete, not at Patrick. Nobody was looking at Patrick, except that Pete saw him yank the hat back on out of the corner of his eye.

"You don't mess with the lead singer's hat," Pete said, adopting the mock-serious tone that would tell Joe it was just one of Pete's random pronouncements. Joe was familiar with those from last summer's tour. "The lead singer's hat is sacred."

Joe kicked the back of Pete's seat. "Patrick's _hat_ is sacred but my _underwear_ isn't?"

Pete grinned and smacked at Joe's knee, turning it into a slide up Joe's thigh when he realized he could reach, laughing as Joe kicked him off. "Nothing about _you_ is sacred, Trohman."

Pete leered, and Joe grumbled and kicked the back of his seat again. Patrick snorted. Pete finally dared to look over at him; his hat was pulled down firmly, but he was only huddled into his own corner in the way he usually would to avoid becoming collateral damage in Pete and Joe's fight. When Pete met his gaze, Patrick rolled his eyes, but he smiled a little as he did it, so Pete figured he hadn't fucked up.

* * *

The weekend before finals, Pete crashed at his parents' house for a couple of days. They had food, and dogs, and sheets that had been washed more than once a semester, and none of his bandmates or study groups would find him there. He got twelve hours of sleep and four meals that weren't cup-o-noodles or chips-and-suspiciously-green-salsa. When he left, his mom tucked an ATM envelope in with his clean laundry "for Christmas shopping."

Pete never spent anything close to what she gave him on Christmas presents and wasn't planning on it that year either, but his mom knew that as well as he did. Taking it wasn't even like lying.

* * *

Pete stared at the empty page that was supposed to become his final seminar paper sometime in the next thirty-seven hours. Every time he tried to type a sentence, he heard one of his classmates casually refuting it in his head, mocking his arguments, his observations, mocking his goddamned _statistics_. Everything he could think of to write that they wouldn't object to just felt plastic, false--as hollow and pointless as an empty shopping bag, a suffocation hazard. Keep away from children.

_Think of the children_, and just like that his brain swerved back to Patrick. Joe and Patrick were already on Christmas break (Joe called it Christmas break just as cheerfully as Patrick did, since Hanukkah was already over), but Pete and Jared and TJ were all still busy with exams, which meant no shows, no practices.

That meant there was nothing to keep Patrick from working late--maybe trying to earn money for Christmas shopping, getting it out of the way before his brother got home from college. Patrick was the type to actually buy thoughtful Christmas presents. It was like something out of O. fucking Henry, Patrick out there selling his ass to buy Christmas presents for parents so shitty he was practically living on the street to avoid them.

Irony fucking sucked when it happened to your friends.

Pete frowned at the steady pulse of the cursor, thinking of his own parents, who were good to him but wouldn't get jack in return. His parents, who gave him money for Christmas shopping--who kept _two_ roofs over his head and made sure he always had somewhere safe to be. Pete still had nearly all the money his mom had given him, minus enough for a day's supply of pizza and coffee.

Pete's fingers typed out _it's eleven oclock, do you know where your patrick is?_ and nobody else's voice had an answer to that. He stared at the words, thinking it over.

He could make some pretty informed guesses. He knew the neighborhoods he'd been taught to avoid, he knew which streets featured in which kinds of stories told by his friends, and friends of friends, which streets appeared in which kinds of jokes.

He could find Patrick. He could find Patrick, and just for once, he could make things _easier_. That was all there was to it.

Pete pulled on a hoodie, stuffed his keys into one pocket and the envelope of cash into another, and left the cursor blinking behind him.

* * *

Pete didn't spot Patrick until he was past him; he thought of Patrick's hair color as _hat_, and the blond hair shining under a streetlight didn't really catch his eye after forty-five minutes of winding through unfamiliar streets, trying not to look too closely at anyone standing around on the sidewalks.

The familiar shape of the shoulders hit him, though, and a glance in the rearview mirror showed him Patrick--definitely Patrick--looking every inch the jailbait he was. Tight jeans, hands casually tucked into his pockets and pulling them even tighter, hoodie open over a t-shirt in fucking _December_ in _Chicago_. And, of course, his head was bare. It was _Patrick_, and he was at work.

All Pete had been thinking about, back at his apartment, was that it had to be cold out and it'd be nice to give Patrick a night off (nicer than working on his stupid paper, and maybe it'd be easier to concentrate after some coffee and diner food and a round of video games or something--it was always easier to concentrate with Patrick around to talk to). But now, having caught that backward glimpse of Patrick, Pete realized he hadn't quite believed that he would really _find_ Patrick standing on a street corner, waiting for someone to pick him up.

Pete forced his eyes off the mirror and down the street. Every second he spent circling, looking for somewhere to turn around--should he park? Could he just pull up and tell Patrick to hop in?--he was conscious that Patrick was standing on that street corner, shivering in his inadequate hoodie. _Working_. The envelope in his pocket felt like something obscene--he might as well have a condom in there with it--and one pristine corner seemed to stab Pete through his shirts as he made a turn, circling the block to get back to Patrick's--to the corner where Patrick had been standing.

Pete was on the wrong side of the street, debating whether he could roll down the window and wave, or yell--Patrick would recognize Pete's car, wouldn't he? He'd recognize _Pete_\--and then he realized Patrick wasn't standing on the corner anymore.

It was the right corner, Pete _knew_ it was the right corner--that was the streetlight Patrick had stood under, that trash can had obscured Pete's view of Patrick's legs in the rearview, Patrick had been looking in the direction of that parked car. But there was no Patrick. He was just _gone_.

Pete swallowed hard, forced himself to keep breathing, keep driving. There was an open space around the corner a couple of blocks down, and Pete maneuvered into it without thinking. He stared at his hands, still gripping the wheel.

Patrick had probably just walked away somewhere. Maybe he'd never been there at all--maybe Pete had seen some other blond boy (wearing the bright red hoodie Pete had seen once in Patrick's bedroom where everything was put away, perfectly neat and faintly dusty) and jumped to the wrong conclusion. There hadn't been anyone on that street corner at all; Pete had hallucinated all of this. Any second he was going to wake up face down on his keyboard with a seminar paper's worth of gibberish on the screen where his forehead had rested on the keys.

Pete touched the envelope in his pocket, grabbed his keys, and got out of the car. He would go and look, see for himself. He jammed his hands into his pockets and started walking back up the street, glancing around nervously at every car that passed, every other person walking down the sidewalk. Were they all here for (for the same reason he was) (for Patrick) (for--)? Would they think Pete was one of them? One of _which one_ of them?

Where the _fuck_ was Patrick?

Pete stopped short, shrinking back automatically into a--thankfully empty--doorway as somebody came out of an alley, halfway up the block from Patrick's corner. The guy was walking fast, heading toward Pete with his head down, and Pete held perfectly still, fists clenching. The guy was big, solid, with a fast, businesslike stride that said _grownup_. Pete flashed on every time he'd seen a forty-year-old at an all-ages show, a fucking creep hanging around looking at the kids, looking at the band. It always made Pete want to hide, want to pull every kid in the club up to the safety of the stage, or hide them all behind the broken door of some shitty dressing room.

He practically held his breath as the guy passed him, but he was walking fast--it was fucking cold, nobody was moving slower than they had to, except the ones who had to hold still. Like Pete in his doorway. Like Patrick--

But no, Pete realized, stepping back onto the sidewalk once the coast was clear. No, Patrick was walking pretty fast. Back toward the corner where Pete had seen him, and the only place he could have come from was that same alleyway. Pete wanted to run after him, had an impulse he instantly recognized as ludicrous, to ask Patrick whether that guy had come after him, touched him, hurt him--but of course he had. Guys like that were Patrick's _job_.

Pete felt sick as he trailed after Patrick, actually scared for the first time now that the creepy guy was already gone, the danger past. He'd thought he imagined this, but he hadn't. He hadn't ever thought of this part, of watching Patrick's stride and trying to guess what that guy had paid him to do, to let him do to Patrick, watching Patrick's hunched shoulders and his ass in those too-tight jeans and the clawing desperate need to hide Patrick away and never let anyone look at him. What had Pete ever been thinking, pulling Patrick out from the safety of a drum kit and putting him up front?

Up ahead, Patrick crossed the street back to his own corner. Pete, following a half-block behind, missed the light, and was standing on the other side waiting when Patrick settled in place under his chosen streetlight and finally looked around.

Pete watched Patrick's gaze skim past him, just as Pete's had skipped past Patrick at first--but when Patrick's attention snapped back to him it felt like a knee in Pete's chest. For a second Patrick had that look on his face that Pete remembered, wild and violent (but recognizing Pete all too well this time). If there hadn't been a street between them, cars whizzing by with their headlights glaring, Pete would have been scared in a whole different way.

Then Patrick turned his back, ran his hands over his dirty-blond hair and shook a little--the same way he would sometimes when he was about to go on stage, shaking off nerves, shaking himself into place to perform--and Pete's stomach sank to whole new depths. He didn't know what he was going to find when he crossed the street, but the light changed and he was walking.

Patrick was still looking away when Pete reached him, hips cocked and shoulders canted just so, someone Pete could almost fail to recognize. Except that it _was_ Patrick, and Pete really, really couldn't just leave him here for another creepy guy to find, another trip to that alley, or into some stranger's car, or to one of those seedy motels on the next block.

"Hey," Pete said.

Patrick said, "Hey," as he turned to face Pete, and his voice sounded easy and normal, and for a stupid second Pete though this was going to be fine, he would tell Patrick to come back to his car, take a night off...

Patrick smiled, and Pete stopped breathing. It was a smile as brittle and fake and terror-concealing as any Pete had ever seen Patrick deploy onstage. Patrick wore it as he looked Pete up and down, blatantly assessing Pete like he never ever had--leaving Pete feeling naked and stupid even though he wasn't the one on display on this _street corner_ in the sketchiest part of Boystown, and Patrick said, "Are you lost? The El's back that way."

Pete frowned. "No, I'm not lost, I was looking for--"

Patrick shook his head. "I don't think this is where you want to be, man. Look, head, like, six blocks down that way, okay, you can find where the girls hang out."

Pete stared. "I'm not here for--Patrick, I'm here to--"

But at the sound of his name, Patrick flinched a little, and he was shaking his head even before Pete stopped talking. "I don't know who you think you're talking to, man, but there's no Patrick working anywhere around here."

Pete just stared. Patrick stared back, challenging, his half-smile fixed and frozen, like if Pete could warm him up, he'd melt, like if Pete hit him he'd shatter. Like Pete's tongue would freeze right to him if he were stupid enough to stick it out.

"My name's Mark," Patrick added firmly, and the words sounded rehearsed, but then it wasn't like either of them imagined Patrick was fooling anyone.

And yet Patrick was insisting on it, because--because Patrick had told Pete this. He'd said _I never use my real name when I'm working_, and if he was insisting on doing it with Pete then it wasn't just about keeping his own name secret and safe. If he was insisting on it now, if he was acting like this with Pete here, there was something else going on.

Intro Psych was running around screaming in Pete's brain, dissociation and multiple personalities--but Patrick wasn't fooling himself any more than he was fooling Pete. Patrick was barely even pretending to be someone else, _Mark_, but he was going through the motions. Because he was working, because this was how he kept work and everything else from getting mixed up together, except Pete had just jumped feet-first into the middle of Patrick's chalk lines.

But if the job was so bad that Patrick had to do this--if he couldn't drop his guard about this even with Pete here, even when Pete knew the truth--then there was just no way Pete could walk away like Patrick was asking him to. There was no way he could leave Patrick here alone--leave _Mark_ to go into alleys with strange men--and still look Patrick in the eye at their next practice.

"Mark, pleased to meet you," Pete said, mouth running totally separately from his brain. "My name's Vivian."

Patrick blinked, his weight shifting backward a little, a shadow of the guarded expression Patrick usually wore when he thought Pete was mocking him.

"That's, um, an interesting name for a guy."

Pete shrugged. It was cold and he could see Patrick shivering (just a little, not as much as he should be in that unzipped hoodie, trying to keep himself still, trying to look like he _liked_ hanging out on a fucking street corner in December). Pete just had to get this over with, get Patrick somewhere _warm_, for God's sake, and obviously Patrick wasn't going to just get into Pete's car if he wasn't even going to admit to being Patrick. Fine.

"It's a family name. Look, whatever your name is, I came here looking for you. You're working, right?"

Something in Patrick's eyes went as cold as his little icy smile. He suddenly wasn't shivering at all. "What the fuck are you, a cop?"

Pete gritted his teeth. "I'm not a cop. I'm a guy looking for a guy."

"A guy named Patrick," Patrick said. "Who I'm not."

Pete rolled his eyes. "You're close enough. Come on, how much for the rest of the night?"

Patrick's eyes went wide for a second, and he went pale under the cold-flush on his cheeks, his mouth working for a second like Pete had knocked the breath right out of his lungs. It made Pete feel the same, a vicious kind of sympathy that forced him to look away from Patrick's face if he wanted to keep breathing.

"You want to pay me," Patrick said. "You want to buy--"

"Your time," Pete said firmly, staring at the sidewalk, the glitter of broken brown glass under the streetlight.

"My _time_," Patrick repeated, his voice strained somehow, fury or laughter lurking in it. Pete didn't even know what. It didn't matter what. He wasn't walking away from here without Patrick.

"How much?" Pete looked up as he said it, and when he met Patrick's eyes, Patrick's expression settled firmly into _fury_, cold and contained, and if he was shaking now it was with rage, violence barely restrained.

It was more comforting than frightening, somehow.

"Two hundred," Patrick said, the words flat and hard. "Cash up front. Or no fucking way."

He said it like he was calling Pete's bluff. Pete called Patrick's instead, tugging the envelope out of his pocket, thumbing through it and handing over most of the contents, a stack of crisp twenties.

Patrick turned half away from Pete--counting, Pete thought, from the papery sound, the movement of Patrick's shoulder. Normally he shouldn't be able to see Pete from this angle, but Patrick probably had just enough peripheral vision without a hat that he'd spot movement.

Pete kept perfectly still, his eyes raised up from the glass on the sidewalk to the halo-shine of the streetlight on Patrick's hair.

When Patrick turned back his face was expressionless--no fake smile, no anger. Pete wondered if this was what Patrick looked like when he was working, really working, when he hid everything for real from creepy men who paid him a lot less than two hundred dollars for God knew what. Even if they both knew Patrick knew who Pete was--Pete had just become a guy who gave Patrick money on a street corner in Boystown.

There was no particular intonation to Patrick's voice as he said, "Okay, Vivian. Where to?"

"My car's this way," Pete said, half-turning back the way he'd come, careful not to turn his back on Patrick. He didn't know whether he expected Patrick to stab him or bolt (bolt to _where_, out of this frying pan and into what fire?) but he didn't want to find out which it would be.

Patrick gave him a short nod and came along, walking at Pete's side in silence, two blocks, and if he was shivering or not shivering, the motion of walking hid the fact from Pete.

Patrick got into Pete's car without saying a word. He buckled himself into the passenger seat while Pete stared at his own hands on the wheel and had an awful moment of déjà vu, because he'd just _been_ here, right here, wondering where Patrick had gone, and now--Jesus, he knew where Patrick was (where _Mark_ was) and knowing was not anywhere fucking near half the battle.

Patrick's uncovered head was like a fucking floodlight in Pete's peripheral vision; he was going to hit something if he had to drive with it glaring at him. Patrick's head only stayed uncovered when he was working, and he was working now, because Pete had _paid_ him--paid Mark, _paid Patrick_\--to get in the car with him.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go at all.

"I think there's a hat in the backseat," Pete said without looking over. "You should put a hat on."

"Kinky dress-up games are extra," Patrick said, voice still dull and monotone--no one hearing him speak would believe the range he could bust out on stage. No one would believe this was Patrick from Fall Out Boy. "You can't fucking afford what you'd have to pay me to put a hat on right now."

Pete bit down hard on his lips. He didn't doubt Patrick was telling the absolute fucking truth.

Pete cranked up the heat and pulled carefully out into the street, looking around and trying to guess which way he was supposed to go. Patrick said nothing until Pete made it back to the kind of well-lit street he could navigate by, even if he didn't know exactly where he was--he was on the grid, he could figure it out.

Then Patrick said, "So what do you want for your two hundred bucks, Vivian?"

Pete glanced sideways at Patrick and then looked back out at the street, squinting at street signs and not saying anything. The car was warming up and Patrick was slouching a little in his seat, flexing his fingers as they thawed.

"I could blow you," Patrick said idly, and Pete's hands _spasmed_ on the wheel, and the car jerked sideways slightly before he got it under control. "I mean, that's not your whole two hundred bucks worth, but you look like a high-energy kind of guy, so I could just take the edge off for you--I could do it in the car, you could just pull over--right up there's good--and I could just take your seatbelt off you and do it right here, you wouldn't even have to push your pants down--"

Too late, _weeks_ too late, Pete managed to spit out, "No, Jesus, no--"

"No?" Patrick asked.

Pete could hear the thread of _rage_ in Patrick's mild voice now, and sick and scared and awful as he felt--like he had a stray dog in the car with him, like at any second Patrick was going to jump him--_attack_ him--as nightmare-surreal as this was, it felt good to hear Patrick being angry with him. That was halfway back to everyday normal.

"Hm," Patrick answered himself, because they were nowhere near normal at all. "The kind of guy who doesn't want a blowjob--maybe you prefer to give than to receive, huh? That it? You really just want to get on your knees for me--"

And Pete couldn't protest that it had never crossed his mind, but it had never felt guilty until right now, even after he knew what Patrick did. It had never felt vile and disgusting to think about his hands on Patrick's hips, his mouth on Patrick's skin, even if he did think about it kind of a lot. It was just a thought. Pete thought about _everybody_: Jared, TJ, Joe a few times, Tim, Chris, Jay, even Andy-the-substitute-drummer. Waitresses and girls he passed on the street. He'd imagined having sex with half the scene kids he'd ever played for, and three quarters of the Poli Sci department _including_ the faculty. But suddenly it was something disgusting and wrong to have thought about Patrick like that, and Patrick was _still fucking talking_.

"--fuck you, too, bet you'd like that, wouldn't you? Or maybe you get all butch when it comes to dick and ass, huh? I'm flexible, you can do me on my back--"

"Shut _up_," Pete snapped, too late, way too late, why hadn't _that_ been the first thing he said? "Just--stop talking. Please."

When he glanced over--cautiously, without turning his head--Patrick was giving him a small, cruel smile. Patrick pressed one finger into his lips--the flashes of streetlight showed they were reddened and a little shiny, and they looked obscenely soft and full against Patrick's fingertip. Pete forced his eyes back to the road, swallowing the impulse to tell Patrick he didn't have to shut up like _that_, not this ringing silence.

Instead, Pete kept his teeth clenched until he thought of something he could say without making things too much worse. Enunciating carefully, Pete said, "Thank you," and then turned on the radio before Patrick's lack of reply could become too obvious.

* * *

Patrick had been to Pete's apartment a couple of times with Joe, when they were first putting the band together. Patrick hadn't really started relaxing around Pete yet, all of three or four months ago. He'd been quiet (until they got him going about music) and shy (ditto) and a little awed (all the time). Then he'd taken a high school kid's self-consciously disinterested glance around Pete's place, but now Patrick stood in the middle of the one room--his goddamn hands still in his goddamn pockets, until those jeans had to be painfully tight--and pointedly looked around.

Pete felt weirdly exposed (felt _naked_, but it felt worse, dangerous, to even have that concept in his mind right now) before this pointedly silent Patrick. Patrick-at-work looked even weirder in the familiar surroundings of Pete's apartment than he had on the street or in Pete's car. Pete wondered what his apartment looked like to this Patrick. Did the still-full basket of folded laundry from his mom's make him seem harmless or like serial killer material? Did the battered Care Bear and the sparkly My Little Ponies (stolen from his sister when Pete was ten, though she'd seen them and given her blessing sometime in the last decade) reveal freaky sexual tendencies?

Patrick didn't tell Pete what he thought, though. He stood there in silence, looking around all three hundred square feet of Pete's shitty off-campus apartment. Then he moved decisively, shrugging out of his hoodie and tossing it on the back of the broken-down couch. He was wearing nothing but a t-shirt and jeans now, practically naked. Pete backed up a step, putting the kitchen counter at his back.

Patrick was smiling as he looked at Pete, and the expression was beyond nasty and into _predatory_. "So what is it you want from me, exactly? What am I here for?"

Pete shrugged helplessly, holding on to the counter. He'd been trying to remember that himself--to think of how he'd pictured this working, before he left, at the point when it seemed simple--but he'd never imagined that he'd come back with _this_ Patrick. "I just wanted you to be somewhere warm."

Patrick let out a sharp, percussive burst of laughter--he was honestly startled, Pete thought, if not honestly amused. "You don't go trolling Boystown with a pocket full of twenties and hand them over to a cheap twink whore because you want him to be someplace warm. Not if that's all you want."

Pete flinched--at Patrick's vicious tone, at the names he called himself--biting back argument. _Yes, apparently I do_. It wasn't all he'd wanted, of course it wasn't. He'd wanted Patrick to be _here_, with him, hanging out. Playing video games, or writing more song lyrics that Pete desperately hoped were some sort of joke, eating cold pizza and arguing with Pete about Transformers like he was actually old enough to remember the cartoons. He'd wanted _Patrick_.

Like he'd read Pete's mind, he said, "You can call me Patrick, you know."

It was bait. It was a crumb of cheese on a big shiny hook. Pete held his breath and held Patrick's gaze and waited for the yank.

Patrick didn't disappoint him. With perfect timing (natural born drummer, _why_ hadn't Pete left him behind the kit?) he added, "Name-calling's included in the standard rate."

Pete forced a smile for the non-joke, throat closing at the thought--he might as well call him a filthy whore as _Patrick_, and for a few awful seconds he just couldn't talk at all.

Patrick kept right on going, into the silence, every word a fist, a knife, a bullet. "You were looking for Patrick, weren't you? And all you could find was me. So what did you want with Patrick? What did you want to do to _him_? Or was there something you wanted him to do for you?"

Pete couldn't even think, and all those vague fantasies, images without intentions, they were all gone like the last dream before waking. All Pete could think of was the only thing he actually did want Patrick to do for him, and he blurted out the truth like it might save him.

"I just want to listen to him sing."

Patrick flinched at that, all the fury going out of him, all the fight, leaving him pale and stricken-looking. He was only just starting to believe what Pete and Joe kept telling him about how good he was, and he still wouldn't sing facing the rest of them when they practiced, still left Pete staring at the way his hands twisted behind his back without an instrument to play.

Then he licked his lips--red and shining and soft--and swallowed, and he was going to ask, he was going to ask Pete if that was what really what he wanted, if that was worth two hundred bucks to him. And if Pete let Patrick sing for him--like this, now, if Pete had bought him on the street and made Patrick give him _that_, of all things--

He moved, because there was no time to think it through. He crossed the distance between himself and Patrick, closed his hands on the bare skin of Patrick's arms, and kissed Patrick, cutting off anything he might say.

Patrick's lips were slick and tasted like cherries, and Patrick's mouth opened readily under Pete's, and for a dizzy instant it was a kiss, a kiss like any other kiss but with _Patrick_, his Patrick, and Patrick was kissing him back--

Patrick was kissing Pete back because that was Patrick's _job_.

Pete yanked himself away from Patrick, turning his back for the first time, shoulders tensed up--but Patrick didn't come closer. Pete could hear him breathing, right where Pete had left him. Pete scrubbed the back of his hand across his own mouth and tried to think of what to say to make this _stop_. He glanced around the apartment, eyes skipping to the rumpled bed in the corner like a black hole--and God, but he just felt _tired_ all of a sudden.

Maybe that would be enough.

"Actually," Pete said, without turning around, like he and Patrick were still speaking, like he hadn't just completely fucked up everything beyond all recognition. "To be honest, I just--I just wanted somebody to sleep here. I don't sleep well alone, and it's been like a week since I got enough sleep, and I just--I just want to sleep, okay? Do you do that?"

When Pete dared to look at Patrick, Patrick looked tired, too. He smiled a little and it was just a smile, forced but not unkind. "Yeah," Patrick said, looking away, rubbing the back of his neck. "I won't even rob you."

Pete smiled, too. "I think you already have all my money, man, but it's the thought that counts."

Patrick's smile twitched and went away. Pete went and sat down on the bed, looking at nothing but his own hands as he pulled his shoes off, yanked his hoodie over his head and tossed it on the floor--the keys in the pocket hit the floor with a muffled clash. Without looking at Patrick, Pete took his jeans off and threw them after his hoodie, and then he crawled into the bed all the way to the wall. He lay facing it, waiting to see what Patrick would do. Pete felt smothered by exhaustion, now that he was lying down, and he knew that if Patrick walked out right now--if he said, "Okay, I'm going out to give more blowjobs in alleys"--Pete wouldn't fight his way up from this fast enough to stop him.

Patrick didn't say a word, though. The light switched off, and there were small sounds of Patrick moving around, which Pete didn't listen to too closely, and then the mattress dipped as a weight settled in on the other side.

Pete stared at the wall until he heard Patrick start to snore, just a little, and then he gave in to temptation enough to roll over and look at him. Patrick had pulled the blanket up over himself, and even with the light that always leaked through the shitty blinds, Pete couldn't tell what he was wearing. His head was uncovered, and Pete didn't want to know any more than that.

Patrick was asleep, and he was safe. Safe from anybody hurting him--from anybody hurting him _physically_, anyway, because God knew what Pete had done to him, what kind of bruises would have darkened on Patrick's brain by the time he woke up tomorrow morning. But he was here.

Pete wondered if the fact that Patrick was sleeping soundly in his bed meant that, despite everything, Patrick trusted Pete, or just that Patrick was so broken down that he'd sleep anywhere, next to anyone, even next to Pete after everything. Would he have fallen asleep next to some stranger if Pete hadn't been there? Would someone else be watching him sleep right now? Or was this a sign that no matter what Patrick said, Pete was something different to him than any other creep on the street?

It didn't make much difference, either way. Pete turned back over to face the wall, and lay awake thinking of every way he could have done this better, and everything he could have said or not said to Patrick to hurt Patrick less, and every way this might ruin everything. Patrick kept breathing behind him, and eventually Pete slept.

* * *

It was just starting to get light when Pete opened his eyes to see Patrick standing near the bed, shrugging his hoodie on with his back to Pete. Pete wanted to scoot over and look at the alarm clock, but that would mean moving into Patrick's half of the bed, and Pete wasn't sure he should be invading that space just yet. "You going?"

Patrick looked over his shoulder at Pete, even his hoodie muted to a shade of gray in the early light. "Yeah, time's up. Unless you want something else before I go?"

Patrick smirked a little as he said it, but Pete was barely awake, sleep padding his brain. He didn't think Patrick was even really trying to be mean anymore; it was just automatic. Necessary, to remind Pete that Patrick was still on the clock, like the dull shine of his hair wouldn't be enough to get the message across.

Pete shook his head against the pillow, letting his eyes close, not wanting to see Patrick like that any more than he had to. "There's pizza in the fridge," he mumbled. "Breakfast, call it a tip."

Patrick didn't reply, but Pete lay still, listening from the edge of sleep. The refrigerator door opened and closed before the front door did. Pete thought that he should get up and lock it behind Patrick, and then he was asleep again.

* * *

Pete never did write his seminar paper. He forgot all about it until the afternoon of that day, less than twenty-four hours to go and an impossible fifteen pages to write. The cursor was still blinking on Pete's stupid, stupid question. _it's eleven oclock, do you know where your patrick is?_

Pete moved down to the next line and typed _hes not yours, you cant buy him._

Pete stared for a few seconds, then backspaced over _buy_ and typed _save_.

Then he closed the file (without saving), shut down his computer, and called Joe. Pete had a little money left. He could take Joe to the arcade, make sure he was still friends with somebody when Patrick quit the band. It wasn't like he had anything more important to do today.

* * *

Pete dropped a single sheet of paper into his professor's mailbox, an hour before the deadline. At the top he wrote _Peter Wentz_ and his student ID and _Poli.Sci. 417.003_ and the date. At the bottom he wrote _Final Paper_ and _Page 1 of 1_.

In his Statistics final, his eyes never quite focused on the page. He caught stray words and acronyms and scribbled answers in half the blanks, whatever sounded good.

When Joe called him and asked if he was too busy to practice--because he and Patrick were so, so bored, come on, just an hour--Pete said yes without thinking, and then stared at the phone through all the time he theoretically should have been reviewing for Political Media.

He showed up ten minutes late--Jared already had his drum kit set up and was glaring pointedly at his watch (Jared planned to pass his exams, not that Pete was planning, exactly, to fail his, though it seemed to be happening).

Patrick was standing in the corner with his hands laced across the back of his neck, hiding the bit of skin and hair that his hat and sweater left visible. He was singing something low and quick, and it hit Pete in the stomach, stopping him right there in the doorway.

This really was all he'd wanted: to hear Patrick sing.

And then Patrick turned around and smiled at Pete--like Patrick always smiled at Pete--and Pete looked at the curve of his mouth and wanted to kiss him.

He smiled back instead, smiled exactly like he was supposed to and stepped inside. Joe was talking, and Pete looked at him, answered him. Jared was bitching, and Pete told him to shut up and deal. Patrick volunteered to play guitar since TJ couldn't make it, and Pete watched him and Joe put their heads together and dole out parts. It was his Stats exam all over again. Pete saw everything in soft focus and spit out answers at random--except now the thing he _was_ focusing on was right here, wearing a sweater striped in a hideous shade of green.

Patrick. Patrick who had turned and smiled at him like nothing was wrong, like nothing had ever happened, like Pete had never kissed him, never tried to _buy_ him. Like he wasn't the same boy who'd been on that street corner.

Because he _wasn't_, of course. That was the point, wasn't it? It had been _Mark_ Pete had given money to, Mark Pete had taken back to his apartment. It was Mark who Pete kissed.

That was what Patrick would pretend, anyway. That was what Patrick wanted to believe, and apparently he wanted to believe it more than he wanted to be mad at Pete. That was a bad sign, stomach-cramping, throat-closing bad, because Patrick ought to be _furious_, and he was letting it go so he didn't have to think about it.

Pete knew that meant he should be trying harder to save Patrick, try something smarter this time and stick with it until it worked, no matter how much Patrick resisted being helped. But all Pete could think was that he'd gotten away with something unforgiveable; Patrick was letting him off the hook even though they both knew what Pete had done. Pete couldn't feel anything but relieved and grateful.

At the end of practice, while Joe helped Jared pack up his kit so he could get back to cramming Calc that much sooner, Patrick retreated back into the corner, this time with a guitar between him and the rest of them. Pete tried not to watch too obviously, but Patrick's fingers were quick and steady on the strings, riveting Pete's attention. He was glad Patrick didn't play during shows, or he'd have a harder time remembering to play his own part than he already did.

Patrick glanced up and caught Pete watching, and he flinched under Pete's gaze. There was something wary (something naked, something _hatless_) in Patrick's eyes, and right then--right then he was the boy on the street corner, not dressed warm enough. Right then Pete wanted to kiss him so softly, so gently, to tell him he was beautiful and better than any of this.

But Patrick didn't want to be kissed, or to be told any of that. Patrick wanted to pretend it hadn't been him, and Pete wanted Patrick to go right on pretending. So Pete gave Patrick a big grin and started playing along with the tune Patrick had been picking out, and Patrick ducked his head, smile hidden behind the brim of his hat, and played faster, leading Pete along.

* * *

Pete literally cornered Patrick at their next practice, tapping him on the shoulder while he was facing the wall, warming up. Patrick turned and gave Pete a look that was almost not wary at all--mostly just curious, a little irritated that Pete was bothering him in the middle of warming up his voice.

The few notes Pete had heard sounded clear and strong, no sign of hoarseness (but it was two days before Christmas, Patrick's brother was home from school, he probably couldn't slip away unaccounted for, and in nine days they'd be back to status quo).

Pete smiled easily at Patrick and said, "Do you know my phone number?"

The glimmer of wariness left Patrick's face, leaving confusion and irritation to slug it out. His eyebrows crowded together under the brim of his hat.

"I have it in my cell phone, Pete. You even have a speed dial, if that makes you feel better."

Pete shook his head, even though it did actually make him feel something stupidly warm and pleased. "No, I mean--look, I want you to _know_ it, okay?"

Pete held out the sheet of paper he'd written everything down on; it was folded up so none of the writing was visible, neat and tidy and as anonymous as folded cash slipped from palm to palm. Patrick was starting to look wary again.

"If you ever needed to call me and you didn't have your phone with you," Pete explained, putting no particular emphasis on the words, like this was a contingency he planned for with all his friends. "I would want you to be able to call me."

Patrick took the slip of paper and unfolded it, without even looking around to be sure he and Pete were alone. He kept staring down at it for way longer than it would take to read it.

(All it said was _My cell:_ and _My apartment:_ and _My parents (know where I'll be, like you, used to weird shit happening with my friends):_ and _Chris (always remembers to check his voice mail when we get offstage):_ and a total of forty neatly printed digits.)

Then Patrick folded the page back up and stuffed it into his pocket. He didn't meet Pete's eyes as he muttered, "Thanks."

His voice sounded a little strained and thin through the rest of his warm-ups. He didn't hit his stride till halfway through practice, but by then he'd already touched the pocket where the folded page was three times that Pete saw, and he did it six more times before practice ended.

* * *

After that, Pete was just waiting for the phone call. He had to tell his parents about failing three out of four classes (Stats was, in technical terms, a total fucking fluke) and withdrawing from the next semester, but all he could really think about was whether their tough-love reaction would make it harder to raise bail money in the middle of the night. He nearly did suck it up and go back to school when he thought about that, but school was a downward spiral headed nowhere near graduation, and his hypothetical degree in Poli Sci wouldn't get Patrick out of Boystown--but the band just might if he worked at it. His parents didn't really push the tough-love line any further than insisting Pete get a job, anyway, and Pete had known he would need one just to keep from climbing the walls for all the hours he wasn't playing.

He tried not to dwell on the possibility of the phone call too much, but his shitty job (not in the same universe of shitty as Patrick's, of course, just a chain bookstore in a mall with too-bright fluorescent lights) gave him way more time to dwell on it than classes had. He couldn't help picturing all the lurid scenarios: Patrick calling from jail, from a hospital, breathless and scared on some street corner Pete couldn't get to fast enough...

When it finally happened--barely past midnight on a mild night in March--Patrick just sounded tired, and asked if Pete could give him a ride. It wasn't until Patrick gave him an address less than half a mile from Patrick's mom's house that Pete even realized this was _the phone call_ and not just Patrick calling him kind of late on a weeknight.

Patrick was sitting on the curb, under the mailbox marked with the address he'd given Pete, in front of a dark two-story suburban home. He had his arms wrapped around his knees, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up so that his nose and a few wisps of hair were all Pete saw in the beam of his headlights when he pulled up. Patrick straightened up and walked over to the passenger door of Pete's car almost before Pete came to a complete stop; he moved stiffly, tired, or hurt, or just tense. Pete couldn't tell at a glance.

He folded up small again when he'd buckled himself into the passenger seat. Pete just got them away, twisting through the suburban streets carefully away from that dark house, away from Patrick's (mom's) neighborhood toward brighter streetlights.

Pete waited until they were stopped at an intersection to say, "You need a ride anywhere in particular?"

Patrick didn't look hurt, not hospital-hurt, and he would have said something, wouldn't he? Far more likely he'd just wanted to get _away_, and this neighborhood--forever away from the corner in Boystown where Patrick must have started the night--was off all the easy transit lines. What kind of asshole had picked Patrick up there, brought him out here, and then just kicked him to the curb? What kind of--but Pete couldn't think about that, or the fact that whoever it was, he had their home address and phone number. He just had to forget about it. None of it had happened to _Patrick_, anyway, right?

Patrick shook his head, leaning his head against the window. "My car, I guess. It's at school."

His voice sounded smaller and tireder in person, when Pete could see the way he held himself tight and still, pressed against the door.

Pete nodded, but Patrick didn't look at him, or say anything else, so Pete figured he hadn't really agreed to anything. Twenty minutes later, Pete parked in front of his apartment and Patrick finally sat up and looked around.

"Pete..."

Patrick hadn't been here since--_Patrick_ hadn't been here since they were first getting the band together.

Pete carefully refrained from actually turning the car off. "If you want me to drop you at your car, we can go there. But if you want to come in, hang out, maybe take a shower..."

Pete barely had time to realize that might sound wrong--_You're dirty_\--before the flash of relief crossed Patrick's face. Still, Patrick's hands stayed in his lap, well away from the door handle. "Pete, you don't have to--I'm fine, I--"

"Come on, get inside, let's go," Pete said, and then he did turn the car off, pocketing the keys. Patrick hadn't said _I don't want to_, just _You don't have to._ That was good enough.

* * *

Patrick came out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam that smelled like Pete's shampoo, wearing Pete's sweatpants and Pete's second-to-last clean t-shirt, with a towel draped over his head. He smiled at Pete from beneath it, and said, "So how was _your_ day?"

Pete scooted toward the foot of his bed, where he'd been sitting flipping through half a dozen old school notebooks looking for something he swore he'd scribbled in a margin once that would help him pin down the thought of Patrick naked in his shower, naked under his clothes. He hadn't found it, but he had found a three-times-weekly record of what everyone in his French 201 class wore for the entire second half of the semester, written mostly in French with the occasional word he couldn't translate ('hoodie' and 'hipster' and 'fugly') in English.

And now Patrick was perched on his bed across an expanse of paper and ink and a language Pete could still read if he put his mind to it. Patrick was right here, barefoot and bare-armed with his wet hair hidden by nothing but a towel Pete had washed (well, had put into the washing machine) at his mom's house. Patrick paused in rubbing the towel over his head to peek out again and say, "Pete?"

Pete felt himself grin, big and bright, and said, "Sorry, switching gears from French," and then launched into the continuing saga of his efforts to convince Kristen that he was totally trustworthy enough to have keys to the store and therefore potential access to the mall when it was closed.

Two minutes in, Patrick had stopped toweling his hair and was resting his (still towel-covered) head on his knee, watching Pete with a small, easy smile. He interrupted Pete's elaborate plans for nighttime mall domination with, "You realize _having_ this plan means you'll never convince Kristen to give you keys, right?"

Pete rolled his eyes. "It's not like I tell _her_ this. I'm not an _idiot_."

Patrick shook his head, yawning. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but then he just squirmed in place and settled his head more comfortably (on his knee, it couldn't really be comfortable at all) and said, "Sorry, yeah, you were saying--the pretzel kiosk."

Pete segued into his plan for defending his wing of the mall in the event of zombie attack, and Patrick's eyes gradually closed. By the time Pete got to the part about the thrilling raid on the display of power tools in the nearest department store, Patrick was tilting visibly toward the pillows. Pete stopped talking to watch.

Patrick's foot slipped off the edge of the mattress, and the towel slid down his back as he jerked his head up. He looked around, disoriented, too out of it to realize his head was bare. He was completely defenseless right then, no hat, no glasses, no idea where he was. He licked his pink lips and blinked at Pete, not seeming freaked out, just confused. Pete reached out with a closed fist and tapped his knuckles against Patrick's shoulder. "Lie down, man, it's late, you've got school tomorrow."

Patrick gave him a slow blink and nodded, falling the rest of the way down and asleep again before Pete even stood up. Pete pulled a blanket over him, right up to the top of his head, and spent the night on the couch.

* * *

They'd been going up to Milwaukee whenever they could scrape together the money for more studio time, and then schedule time all five of them could actually make. They were _recording_, even if it was one song at a time every two or three weeks, and Pete felt like he was living session to session, like nothing was as real as what happened in the studio. They played shows and celebrated Joe and Patrick's graduations, but the thing that stuck in Pete's head was the day Patrick came in to record with his voice clear as a bell, but didn't sit down for six hours straight. Arma fucking imploded and all Pete could think about was how it freed up his schedule for another trip up north (another thing that would keep Patrick busy and safe while it lasted).

But they fell out the other end of the tunnel eventually. It was fall and the band was kind of a full time thing. He was living in a shitty apartment with Joe and Patrick and they all had the kind of shitty job that came with a regular paycheck. Patrick's voice was always clear and Patrick sat down wherever he wanted to. He took his hat off sometimes, perfectly casually, even performed without it once in a while. Patrick's other job had become something Pete remembered (or thought he remembered, but he could never have imagined all of that) without Pete noticing quite when it moved into the past tense.

He never forgot it, exactly, but it wasn't something he thought about all the time, either--he'd never _wanted_ to think about it, and touring and recording and writing and touring and touring conspired to push it out of his head. Every once in a while it would hit him again--a glimpse of Patrick's mouth that caught him at the wrong angle would still say _Patrick used to have sex with dudes for money_ in some low-down part of Pete's brain, quickly silenced. The sight of Patrick's hair uncovered still made him feel a little sick and scared, a twist of muscle low in his belly, blood-hot and shamed.

The thought of kissing Patrick, of course, always reminded him of the first time he had (not) kissed Patrick. He still thought of kissing Patrick, some months more, some less, but the thought would still come to him sometimes, the _want_. But that stupid wrong first kiss was as indelible as any tattoo that had seemed like a good idea at the time, and Pete didn't see any way to get past it.

He could pretend he'd never kissed Patrick before--strictly speaking, he hadn't--and Patrick would probably let that slide, whether he wanted to kiss Pete or not (and Pete was fucked if he could tell after all this time). But Patrick letting it slide would be even worse than talking about it, and Pete didn't think he could force Patrick to talk about it, not ever.

Of course, even while Pete didn't kiss Patrick, Patrick was still--always, every day--letting it slide. Pete didn't think about that too much, either.

* * *

Pete got words caught in his head a lot--music sometimes, songs sometimes, but often just words. A phrase, a sentence--sometimes spoken, sometimes just a scribble or a line of print floating in his head, bouncing around, getting snagged on jagged edges and sinking into the soft parts.

Tonight it was something Patrick had said years ago, back before everything, back when Patrick was still financing the best job ever with the worst (and hadn't Pete told him, he'd be the one who was ready when a big record deal came calling? And now here they were, and Patrick had signed his name with a steady hand and a quiet stunned laugh. Pete's own signature had been a shaky-handed scrawl camouflaged with some loud remark he couldn't remember anymore, his own words bright and shiny, utterly disposable when they popped out of his own mouth).

Patrick's words had staying power, though, spoken years ago in Patrick's golden voice. Pete could still hear it. "_It's just easier to be nowhere_."

Pete hadn't been able to figure out back then, how bad everywhere had to be that nowhere was worth what Patrick had to do to stay there, but now... now Pete was a whore too, and he thought he was starting to understand it. He'd always wanted to go home, before this, but now, tonight, he just wanted to be _nowhere_, to retreat from everything and everyone at once, even from his bed and his toys and his room and himself, from everything safe as well as everything scary.

He couldn't actually get to nowhere, but the dark, vacant parking lot of a Best Buy that had closed hours ago was doing a pretty good impression.

He wondered if he'd been wrong all along, thinking that someone must have hurt Patrick, that something terrible must have happened to him, to drive him to street corners and the back seat of his rundown car. Because here Pete was, hiding in his own--much nicer--car, and no one had ever hurt him, and nothing terrible had happened. Being a whore wasn't such a bad gig, even. They treated him nice, told him how pretty he was. Everybody loved him. His mother was so proud. Patrick was happy, safe and sound. Andy and Joe were happy. They were his best friends, they had the best job in the world and it was actually paying off now.

He was using his own name, though. Maybe that had been his mistake; Stump had had the sense to shorten his, getting off on a technicality, one silent letter's space to protect himself. Maybe it was enough. Patrick was in the studio right now, maybe, or maybe sleeping peacefully with his head uncovered, breathing with that same little hitch Pete had heard a million times now in vans and motels and on floors and buses. (Sometimes Pete got that sound caught in his head, just Patrick's breathing going on and on, quiet and steady.)

Now all Pete wanted was for everything to stop, to shut up and leave him alone--but Patrick's voice just echoed and echoed in his head, only blurring at the edges now that Pete's eyes were starting to close. He was way too tired to drive, but maybe he could sleep in the back seat--except Patrick's voice took a funny bounce off something in Pete's head, and he remembered for a second just how he'd felt when Patrick said it, the way it had scared him. He'd been worried about Patrick freezing when he slept in his car, and Pete was parked on a windswept plain of asphalt in February. It had snowed earlier and would probably snow more tonight. He shouldn't sleep in his car.

He didn't think he could drive--he hadn't been thinking about driving when he took the pills, just about _being nowhere_, thinking he'd arrived at his destination--so now he was going to have to call somebody.

His fingers were weak and unsteady on his phone, and he felt a distant little bounce of fear, _Maybe that was too many, maybe that was way too many_. But he scrolled unsteadily down the contact list past Andy, Joe, his mom, Patrick, past every good thing he needed to get away from. He hit the speed dial for someone whose job it was to take Pete's stupid phone calls in the middle of the night. That would be easier. Strictly business. He could do business in his _sleep_, ha.

* * *

It was about a month after he got out of the hospital that Pete started being really aware of anything that didn't happen directly in front of his face (or directly into his ear, via Sidekick or monitor). He noticed the way everybody watched him, but he didn't want to acknowledge that, so instead, perversely, he started watching for the times they paid attention to anything but him.

At first he thought they were avoiding him (_not everything is about you, Peter_, his therapist's words, and they were the right ones to have stuck in his head, at least). But pretty soon Pete noticed that there was a pattern going on, that Andy disappeared into his bunk at 11 AM CST (no matter where they were) for exactly fifty-two minutes every Monday and Thursday.

Joe did it at two, Tuesdays and Fridays.

Patrick went Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays (just as often as Pete himself), at either noon or three. Fifty-two minutes in their bunks with their phones, Pete's whole band was just like him.

Pete cornered Patrick at 3:55 on a Wednesday, and blurted, "Are you talking to a shrink?"

"No," Patrick said, frowning at him in the way that had a smile hidden way at the bottom if Pete just had the energy to dig down that far. "I'm talking to a mental patient."

Pete rolled his eyes, even as he felt relieved, because oh, God, Patrick was giving him shit about it, _finally_. That had to mean he was going to be all right. "Were you? Just now? Are _all_ of you?"

Patrick's frown dissolved, and he shrugged and then nodded. "It's not a secret or anything. Bob wanted us all to for a little while, at least. You scared the shit out of him, he wants to make sure the rest of us are okay. Just a precaution."

Pete was still thinking _but you would never, none of you would ever_ when Patrick's eyes skipped away from his. He anticipated the blow a second before he felt it, Patrick saying, "I think I might keep going, though. It's been good, talking to someone."

He looked Pete straight in the eye, smiling wryly as he added, "Turns out I have some stuff to talk about."

For a blind, stupid instant, Pete felt nothing but _jealousy_. Patrick had told someone else. For the first time in all these years, Patrick had told someone other than Pete. Like Pete wasn't--

But, hell, of course Pete wasn't _good enough_, he never had been, not up against that. Jealousy drowned fast in a flood of relief, because finally, finally there was an adult on the scene, finally somebody else knew, somebody responsible, somebody who could _do_ something. Somebody who would know how to make it right for Patrick, how to reach back through time and save him like Pete never could.

Pete dredged up a smile for Patrick. It felt dusty and stiff, and he just had to hope Patrick would know it was sincere, medicated and talked-out as it was.

"Good, man, that's really--I mean, not good, but--"

Patrick smiled back, and Patrick's smile looked just the same as it always had, just as real. Something unscheduled but constant.

"No, actually it is, Pete. It really is good."

* * *

They had a hotel night in the first week on Nintendo Fusion, which seemed like a waste--they hadn't been on the bus anywhere near long enough to really appreciate it. Pete did his best anyway, taking a long hot shower and using up precisely half of the ridiculous number of towels stacked in the stupidly huge bathroom. Patrick always used exactly one towel, but the rest of them were still Patrick's to not use.

Pete left all his towels but the one around his hips in a pile on the floor, and headed out of the bathroom and over to his bag for clean underwear. It was so early in the tour he still _had_ clean underwear, a totally stupid time to have a hotel night. Pete glanced up to say so to Patrick once he had his jockeys on, but Patrick was staring intently into his laptop, headphones on. He hadn't moved an inch since Pete went into the bathroom, probably hadn't so much as glanced up when Pete came out.

Pete smiled, like he did practically every time he caught sight of Patrick, and then he felt the familiar stupid squeeze in his chest, which only happened maybe one percent of the time (maybe ten). _I want to kiss him_.

It had been a while since he'd been really aware of wanting it, since he'd thought it out loud. Warped Tour had made for a distracting summer, and he'd spent the spring just trying to get well enough to make it through the summer. Suddenly it had been months since he could remember thinking about kissing Patrick and telling himself he never could. Now it had been months since Patrick had told him that someone else knew, that it wasn't up to Pete to save him anymore. So maybe--maybe Pete could say something, now. Maybe it wasn't totally unthinkable. Maybe he really could, after all this time, if he did it just right, maybe he could really kiss _Patrick_.

He stood still another second, frozen beside his duffle bag and staring at Patrick, who kept working steadily, totally oblivious to Pete. He was wearing a stocking cap that his headphones fit over easily, and the light from the laptop shone blue-white on his unblinking eyes, and he was perfectly ordinary everyday unbelievably awesome Patrick. Pete scrubbed one hand over his damp hair, thought for a wild, dazed second that he should get dressed for this, and then realized he'd already wasted more than enough time.

Pete walked over to Patrick's bed and laid down on his stomach, stretched out at Patrick's side, his head pillowed on his arms and his feet dangling off the end of the bed. He left a carefully empty space between himself and Patrick, chilly hotel air crawling over his damp skin on every side. Patrick didn't say anything, but Pete heard faint music suddenly, and knew Patrick had tugged his headphones down around his neck. Patrick was listening for whatever Pete had to say.

Pete propped his chin on his wrist and stared at the fake headboard attached to the wall, Patrick just visible in his peripheral vision. In an idle tone, he said, "You know, one time, like a million years ago, I kissed this kid who looked just like you."

Pete saw Patrick straighten up from his laptop hunch, and a second later the music abruptly shut off. Pete shut his eyes and waited.

Patrick cleared his throat and spoke slowly, cautiously. "That might have been me, actually."

_Might have_, and Pete's stomach flipped, at the combination of possibility and uncertainty. Patrick _might_ be ready to admit it. He might not. Either way it was true, and it was finally on the table.

Pete kept his eyes closed and tried not to let his shoulders tense too obviously as he said, "The kid I kissed, he wasn't wearing a hat."

"Mmm," Patrick said. There was a soft quick _thump-thump-thump_ in the vicinity of Patrick's laptop, thumb laying down a beat just south of the space bar.

"It, uh. That probably was me, then," Patrick said, his voice unsteady and his words a little off the beat. "I wasn't wearing a hat that time that you kissed me."

There it was. It was out there, Patrick had said it. It had happened, Pete had kissed him, and Patrick hadn't been wearing a hat, and Patrick had finally, finally, let it be real. Let it be _Patrick_ who Pete had kissed in that shitty little apartment when he didn't know what else to do.

Pete rolled back onto his side, looking up at Patrick. The soft beat on the laptop had stopped, everything had stopped. Patrick was sitting very still, looking down at Pete with an expression Pete couldn't read. Waiting for something, waiting for Pete to give him a cue, throw some patter into the silence. Pete didn't know what the hell to say. _Dead air_, except it was alive between them, pushing into Pete's chest, making it hard to breathe.

"I'm sorry," he blurted, and it wasn't until he said it that he realized just how stupidly, pathetically late it was--but he'd never been able to say it before this moment, not to Patrick, and he'd never seen Mark again to apologize to him, and it wasn't exactly Mark he owed an apology--and maybe, late as he was, maybe he was still in time.

Patrick's head tilted, and the waiting expression compressed into a frown, thoughtful or confused. "What for?"

"I don't know," Pete said, which was stupid, because he did know. But there was so much of it, and he didn't know if he could ever say any of it out loud--_I'm sorry I didn't save you, I'm sorry I didn't let you save me, I'm sorry I didn't tell a grownup until it was too late_. His mouth kept moving anyway.

"Everything. Stuff I didn't do, mostly."

"Hm," Patrick said, a short, definite syllable. He looked back down at the computer in his lap. The gentle thumping came back, quicker and syncopated. Patrick was thinking with both hands.

Pete kept watching the side of Patrick's face, waiting for a verdict.

"Okay," Patrick said finally, looking back at him. He was smiling slightly, although he hadn't really relaxed. "I can't think of anything you haven't done, or even anything you _have_ done, that I still want to hold against you. So no matter what you're apologizing for, you must be forgiven."

Patrick said it gently, amiably, and it was _good_ news, but it stole Pete's breath like a knee in his stomach. Offhanded as Patrick's words sounded, Pete knew without a doubt that they were true. There should have been a joke, a punch line, an _except that one time in the van, that was my last pair of clean socks_, but there was nothing. Patrick was looking down at him steadily and making no exceptions. Just like that, Pete was forgiven. Not because he came anywhere near to deserving it, but because Patrick had decided to let him off the hook.

Patrick had done that for him before, but this time it was real relief, honest and above-board. This time Patrick was _safe_, and Pete was safe, and they were really, really all right.

"Okay," Pete echoed, though he should have been saying so much more, starting with _thank you_. He should have felt free, light, released, but he still hadn't quite caught his breath, and he didn't think he could have gotten up off Patrick's bed if it had been on fire.

"Was there, uh."

Pete didn't realize he'd looked away from Patrick's face until he had to look up to see it again. Patrick was back to looking a little confused, a little thoughtful.

"Was there some reason you brought this up now? Did you just want to apologize?"

Pete swallowed and forced himself to hold Patrick's gaze. He shouldn't say it now, no sane person would say it now. Things were finally--maybe for the first time _ever_\--finally really truly good between him and Patrick. There was no way it was a good idea to bring it up now.

But if he didn't say it because he didn't want to deal with how Patrick would react, because he wanted to keep the peace, then it wasn't just a secret. It was a lie. He couldn't lie to Patrick right now, not when Patrick had just been better to him than Pete could ever possibly be worth. He couldn't think of how to say the words to tell Patrick the truth, though, any more than he could have made the right apologies out loud.

Pete dropped his gaze, watched his own hand slowly bridge the gap he'd left between himself and Patrick. He could barely feel the denim of Patrick's jeans when Patrick tensed, Pete's fingertips just brushing his hip. Stupid for it to mean anything when Pete had spent the last four years hanging all over Patrick, but of course it did, now.

"I still," Pete said. "Patrick. I want."

"_Oh_," Patrick said, almost without voice, almost a sigh instead of a word. Pete kept his eyes on his fingers, three tentative points of contact, until Patrick's hand tugged his chin up.

Pete saw nothing but relief on Patrick's face, a twitching smile that looked almost giddy. "Pete, thank _God_. _Finally_."

Pete felt his mouth drop open even against the pressure of Patrick's fingers, and Patrick's smile flashed wider before he let go of Pete's face and turned away. Pete watched, dazed, as Patrick scooted off the bed, putting his computer somewhere--away from the bed, because if it was on the bed--

Pete's brain shorted out a little, and the next thing he was really aware of was Patrick's hand on his shoulder, Patrick--Patrick was lying on the bed beside him, facing him--Patrick's lips brushing lightly against his, carefully, like Pete was the one who had any good reason for being about to fall apart here. Like _Pete_ was the one who'd gotten broken somewhere along the line and Patrick had to be careful with him.

Pete closed his eyes. Patrick was kissing him. _Patrick_ was kissing _him_, Patrick's tongue was flicking into his mouth and Patrick's hand was sliding down Pete's arm, and Pete had never, not since that night in the car, that night in his apartment--never since _What do you want from him, what do you want Patrick to do for you?_\--he'd never let himself think further than kissing.

He'd never let himself think further than the _impossibility_ of kissing. But Patrick was lying on the bed with him, sliding closer, his chest against Pete's, knees brushing Pete's bare thighs,  
and every inch of Pete's skin from his toes to his dick to the back of his neck went tight at the contact.

Patrick pushed one knee between Pete's thighs and leaned into him, his weight just resting against Pete, presence without real pressure. Patrick's teeth scraped Pete's lower lip, and Pete made an involuntary startled sound. He clutched blindly at Patrick, his hand landing on Patrick's bare arm. It was just like that night except that Patrick just tasted like Patrick, and Patrick had kissed him first, and Patrick's hand was on his side, on his bare skin. Because Patrick wanted him too. _Finally_. Thank _God_.

Pete couldn't pull his mouth from Patrick's--kissing, kissing was good, he had years of kissing Patrick to catch up on, and he still wasn't sure he could think through anything else--but his hand couldn't hold still on the bare skin of Patrick's arm. His fingers worked their way down to Patrick's side, places he'd touched a thousand times, faked punches at and slept against in the van but now he was _touching_, feeling, and Patrick shuddered a little against him and pulled away abruptly.

Pete froze, another apology on his wet, tingling lips, except Patrick was already struggling out of his t-shirt. Pete clutched at the sheet, feeling off-balance and breathless all over again, light-headed and floating as he watched Patrick's perfect unmarked skin come into view.

Patrick tugged the shirt off over his head, and his hat was half pulled off with it. Pete was sitting up before he could think of it, catching Patrick's wrist even as Patrick reached up to tug the hat the rest of the way off.

"Don't."

Patrick was wide-eyed, startled, and then he frowned a little, right up to the edge of annoyed. "Pete, it's not--it doesn't mean that anymore. You know it doesn't mean that anymore."

"I know, I just, please--" and he heard some old echo of Patrick's (Mark's) icy, furious voice, _kinky dress-up games_ and Pete couldn't have paid him enough to put on a hat right then, but, "please, just leave it."

Patrick's frown receded, leaving a soft look that cut right through Pete's skin. Patrick was the kind of guy who probably would play kinky dress-up games, if that was what worked for his boyfriend.

"Yeah, okay, okay, I'll--" and Pete had to lean in and wrap his arm around Patrick's bare shoulders. He tugged the hat down with the hand that had held Patrick's wrist, stopped Patrick's mouth with another kiss, as sweet and dirty a _thank you_ as he knew how to say.

Patrick leaned into Pete's hold and into the kiss, his tongue slick on Pete's. They were all random friction, mouths and chests and shoulders, bare skin sliding together because Patrick kept squirming--because Patrick, Pete realized when Patrick broke away from the kiss, was _taking his pants off_. Pete looked down, his arm still looped around Patrick's shoulders, as Patrick shoved his jeans down and then pulled away a little to peel down his boxers, and Pete was staring wide-eyed at Patrick's _cock_.

It was hard, and flushed, and _Patrick_ and _naked_ and _sex_. Pete felt his mouth stretch into a stupid wide grin, because this was happening, this was _actually happening_. He was holding his breath, trying not to let out the incredulous laugh rattling his ribs, and Patrick shoved Pete flat to the bed, his other hand reaching to Pete's jockeys to tug them down.

"Pete, if you're laughing at me I swear to God--"

Pete had to breathe and the sound escaped, laughter pealing out of him. Patrick's hands didn't hesitate in stripping him. Pete kicked his shorts the rest of the way off and he was naked, and hard like he'd been for_ever_, waiting for this, breathless and needing and _laughing_. Laughing with Patrick, under Patrick, naked with Patrick.

"No," he managed, Patrick's weight settling hard on top of him, and Patrick might have meant it as punishment, but it was _friction_. It was Patrick's thighs on either side of him and Patrick's hands on his shoulders and Patrick's _cock_ against his. Patrick's mouth hovered teasingly just above his, twitching toward a smile as Pete gasped for breath.

"Jesus, Patrick, I just--_Patrick_."

Patrick shook his head, but he was maybe laughing a little too, pressing his open mouth to Pete's, rocking against Pete unsteadily as Pete moved under him. Pete was trying to catch his breath, catch a rhythm, but his hips and hands moved randomly, restlessly, thighs and fingers spread to take it all in. _Patrick, Patrick, Patrick_, and he thought he was laughing too hard to form words, but Patrick's teeth closed on his lip, scraped along his jaw, "Yeah, yeah, Pete--"

Patrick broke the kiss for a second, his hand covering Pete's mouth, and he met Pete's eyes and said, "Lick."

His voice was low and rough and went straight to Pete's dick, and Pete's hips jerked up as he closed his eyes and did as he was told. Then Patrick's mouth was on his again and Patrick's weight shifted on him. Patrick's hand was on his dick, a tight spit-wet grip and guitar calluses on thin, hot skin. Pete had one hand on Patrick's hip, holding him down, while the other crept up to the nape of Patrick's neck, Patrick's hair against the back of his hand. Pete tugged Patrick's mouth down to his, tried to hold a kiss together but got nothing but brief wet contacts, slick sounds in counterpoint to the motion of Patrick's hand. His breaths kept breaking on more laughter, and Patrick was grinning at him between kisses.

"Crazy fucker," Patrick gasped, "_Pete_."

Pete wasn't sure whether that had been a command, but he came just like that, as his name fell from Patrick's mouth, Patrick holding him down, all around him, _Patrickpatrickpatrick_.

He blinked his eyes open and Patrick was looking down at him, hotel light shining like a halo around his head, the contrast stark against his black stocking cap. Patrick rocked down a little against Pete, still hard, and Pete peeled his hand off Patrick's hip to wrap around Patrick's cock. Patrick's mouth fell open, head tilting back and his hips pushing into Pete's grip, so his body arched back, exposed to Pete's gaze. Patrick was all pale skin and smooth lines, and Pete could see where he was flushed and where sweat gleamed on his chest. His hand tightened on Patrick's cock, a little slick from Pete's sweat, Pete's come.

"The thing is," Pete said, brushing his thumb over the head of Patrick's cock, making Patrick's head snap down to look. "Patrick, I--I really want to get down on my knees for you."

Patrick's hand caught Pete's wrist, forcing Pete's hand to be still. Patrick said, "Okay, okay, _yeah_," in a small, breathless voice, eyes wide, pupils blown.

It took Pete another second to make himself let go of Patrick's cock, and then Patrick was scrambling off him, legs getting all tangled up because Pete was rolling after him before Patrick was really _off_ him. There were a few confused seconds of shoving and Patrick laughing at him, breathless, "Pete, that's my _leg_, ow--"

And then Patrick was propped against the pillows, Pete lying between his splayed legs, his hand and tongue curling around Patrick's dick at the same time. Patrick made a long low sound, all vowels, and his hand landed on Pete's head, fingertips pressing against Pete's scalp, not pushing, not pulling--because Patrick would know to be polite--because Patrick _was_ polite, Patrick was a good guy. Pete opened his mouth for Patrick's cock, taking it in slowly, savoring the taste and heat and weight on his tongue, filling his mouth. _Patrick_, after all this time. _Patrick_.

Pete tried to take his time and make it good, working his hand and mouth in rhythm, pulling off to lick and find the spots that made Patrick gasp his name and jerk up under him. Patrick's thighs tightened around Pete's shoulders, Patrick's dick jumped in Pete's grasp, in Pete's mouth, and Pete dragged his lips over the head, teasing a little. Patrick's hand tightened on his head, and Pete let himself be pushed, going down on Patrick again, further this time, his lips meeting his fingers.

Patrick groaned, and then the fingers in Pete's hair tightened, _pulled_, and Pete had to look up, because _ow_ and _hey_.

Patrick was grinning, twisted his fingers and tugged again, arching back against the pillows and letting Pete see his hat fall off. His hair was a sweaty mess and he had Pete on his knees and it was _on_. Pete closed his eyes and got to work, humming and swallowing and letting his hand slide down, playing with Patrick's balls and then sliding behind, pressing right _there_. Patrick kept pulling his fucking hair and not quite fucking his mouth and _laughing_, breathless.

"Pete, I'm--Pete, you don't--_Pete_\--"

Patrick's hips jerked up hard, once, twice, and Pete did pull off a little, enough to catch the first shot on his tongue as Patrick came. He pulled off after that, stroking Patrick through the rest--come splashing on his chin and his hand--raising his head to watch Patrick's head pressed back against the pillows, his eyes nearly closing as he came. His cheeks were pink, his hair bright against the white pillows, and Pete had never seen anything better.

Patrick tugged Pete's hand off his dick without opening his eyes, reached over and tugged at Pete's other hand until Pete had to lie down or fall down. He collapsed not quite on top of Patrick, and Patrick tugged Pete's arm over himself, pulling Pete's sticky hand into his hair.

Pete thought _he's going to bitch about that tomorrow_ and didn't argue, threading his fingers through it, rubbing his thumb against Patrick's scalp. Patrick turned on his side, pressing his face into Pete's shoulder.

"That's not what it means," Patrick murmured. "Not anymore. That's over now, okay? It's over. We survived."

Pete curled his fingers in Patrick's hair, tugged Patrick's head up far enough to kiss him. Patrick smiled against Pete's mouth, and Pete closed his eyes, thinking _Patrick has sex with--holy shit, Patrick has sex with me_.

* * *

Pete got up to turn off the lights once he was sure Patrick was sleeping, and Patrick rolled pliantly back into Pete's grip when Pete cuddled up next to him again. Pete's brain was buzzing with half-formed words, all rhymes and no reason. He fell into dreams and out of them with Patrick's skin pressed to his own, warm and sticky and breathing in time.

He woke up when Patrick squirmed away from him, lifted his arm and waited, breath held. But Patrick just twisted and stretched and settled against Pete again, his breathing even. Pete pressed his face to Patrick's shoulder and told himself he hadn't dreamed this, that this--that _Patrick_\--was real and happening to him.

He jumped like he'd been tasered when Patrick said, voice dreamy but distinct, "I kept waiting for you to say something."

Patrick's hand patted awkwardly at his shoulder, soothing down his arm, five fingers of apology for startling him, Pete thought.

"Not to me," Patrick added, sounding a little more awake, but still sleepy-calm. "I thought you'd never say anything to me about it at all. But for a long time I was waiting for you to make a joke on stage or in an interview or something, and no one else would--"

Pete felt a little sick at the very thought, Patrick laughing and nodding along with Andy and Joe. He jerked back from Patrick's hand.

"I wouldn't--Patrick!"

"No, hey, no, that's what I'm saying."

Patrick reached for him, giving him a glancing jab to the throat before he caught Pete's shoulder and pulled him back down, so they were curled on their sides, face-to-face like they'd started out, like Patrick had first kissed him. Patrick kissed him again, off-target in the dark, a quick brush of lips that mostly grazed Pete's chin.

"I'm saying I know. I realized it years ago, I realized _you don't think it's funny_." Patrick's hand slipped into Pete's hair, just petting this time, no pressure. "Pete, you don't hold much sacred. Not yourself, not most of the people you love. But I was the walking punch line to about a thousand dirty jokes and you didn't think any of them were funny."

Pete felt his shoulders hunch a little, defensive, even though Patrick was saying it like it was something good--even so, Pete could hear some familiar thread of mockery, _Can't you take a joke? Can't you make one?_ He reached for Patrick, curled his hand around the back of Patrick's neck. Patrick's hand moved to the same place, holding their faces close. He could feel Patrick's words against his mouth when Patrick spoke.

"I just want you to know I noticed," Patrick whispered. "Whatever else you fucked up--you respected me in the morning, and you always have."

Pete had to kiss Patrick then, because the words were too much, too serious a thing to face in the middle of the night, naked--but too serious to be said any other time, either. Patrick kissed him back, soft and easy, and when Pete finally had to let go and breathe, Patrick shifted up a little. His cheek pressed against Pete's as he spoke into Pete's ear.

"I just want you to know, I respect you too."


End file.
